


Still In Love

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Love, Masche/football is the real ship, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 20:36:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17230802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Growing old is only a tragedy if you make it one.  Or: Masche retires from the national team a very happy man.





	Still In Love

When Masche leaves, he leaves a happy man.

He knows what the papers and pundits will say. They talk of wasted opportunity, of disappointments upon disappointments. They talk of how he had the most apps of any of his countrymen and still failed to win, well, anything. They conveniently forget both Olympic medals or the fact that sometimes, your best just isn't good enough.

Masche leaves knowing he's done his best. He's bled and sweated over La Selección for the best half of his life and even if they never managed to earn Argentina her third title, he wouldn't trade it for anything.

See, what the pundits don't realize is: if they _weren't_ footballers, what the hell would they be? Doctors and lawyers? Farmers and ranchers? Factory workers? The pundits have got it in their head that if he hadn't been called up, if he had let some newer talent shine, then maybe they could've taken the cup.

Masche knows better. More than that, he doesn't care.

It's an honor above all others to represent his country. He knows; Leo knows; and so does everyone else on the team. If he hadn't been called up this time, he wouldn't have gone kicking and screaming, he has more class than that, but at the same time, he knows a boon when he sees it.

The truth is: it doesn't matter what configuration of players they put out this time, there's no way to the final for them. Not with the current generation and certainly not with the administration. But these are his teammates, his brothers-in-arms, and though he's the last of them to have played in Athens, there's still some holdovers from Beijing.

-

Masche cried when he got the message.

 _Sampaoli's put you on the list_. He doesn't remember if it's from Pablo or Leo or Simeone. What matters is that he has one final tournament, a farewell World Cup.

(Hebei is not at all like Beijing. But then, the Beijing of Masche's memory is from ten years past. He visited the capital a couple weeks back and it is a completely different city.)

-

He remembers his father, a lawyer, who had wanted him to follow in his footsteps. It wasn't too late for him to pick up his studies, his old man had said in their last conversation. See, most of the other professions are like wine: sweeter and richer with age. Football is not. His father had told him this from the get-go, but the thing is, it had already been too late.

Like his teammates and like a hundred thousand people across the world, Masche falls in love the moment his feet touch the ball. And even though there are new nuances to the relationship and even though it's no longer _always_ at the forefront of his mind, still, whenever he dons the Albiceleste, it's a little like falling in love again.

Football is a fickle mistress. Sometimes, it doesn't matter how much you've practiced or how many videos of the other side you've seen. Sometimes, it really seems like there's a god of luck or irony and he personally hates you. Masche's felt it so many times: after the copas, after the world cups, even in the lead-up to the olympics. Missed opportunities to steal the ball away; unfair (or ignored) penalties; players who should've been sent to the medics forcing their managers to field them.

The latter is something Masche has been guilty of on many a count. From a sprained wrist to a nosebleed, from a possible concussion to a dislocated shoulder, he's played on despite it all.

The commentators called him a trooper then. As if it were as simple as gritting his teeth and getting on with it.

The truth is: it always hurts like hell, playing when you're not in peak condition. But the corollary to that is twofold. First, it hurts more to be on the bench, to be vibrating with the desire to help out, to play, to change the course of the game, and have to sit, quite literally, on your hands. And second, if footballers only ever played in peak condition, there would be half or maybe even a quarter of the number of matches.

(So in a sense, the commentators are right. It _is_ a matter of gritting his teeth and after evaluating the possible options, just getting on with it.)

-

He goes to Russia to prove a point. And, contrary to the critics, it's not about being able to play. It's about playing in less than peak condition, under less than ideal circumstances, and still loving the sport. Because these are the same men he's played with in Germany and South Africa and Brazil and Masche will be damned if they see him hang up his hat because of the fiasco that was the last Copa.

This is football and he still loves to play.

This is the Albiceleste and he still dreams of seeing her win.

"I don't get it," Pipita says when Masche explains his philosophy to him. Pipita is nearly four years younger and he, like Leo and Kun, is prone to despair. He thinks in terms of years and he reads what the papers say about them even if he pretends not to.

Masche knows, because when he was Pipita's age (well, a little while before) he did the same thing.

He shakes his head instead and reaches up to hold Pipita by the back of his neck, bringing him close for a hug.

"What the hell, man," Pipita exclaims, even as he's hugging Masche tight. "You're freaking me out," he adds, "Smiling like that. With a finale like _that_."

"It's over for me," Masche admits, chuckling a little at his own admission. It feels strangely liberating, to be able to say this at last. It's over. It's done. He's served as much and for as long as he could. He adds: "Might be over for you too."

Pipita snorts, pulling back. "Asshole."

"Hey, I don't know," Masche grins. "But it was good, wasn't it? I know I wouldn't have said no."

"Wouldn't have," Pipita repeats. He snorts and looks away. "Oy Marcos!" he calls, "Will you get a load of Masche here?"

Marcos jogs over, takes a swing, and then wraps Masche in a bear hug.

"You're such a fucking ass, you know," Marcos mumbles. And then: "I love you more than my old man, fuck."

Everyone else converges on them and even though Masche hasn't made the announcement, he knows he doesn't need to. Everyone else, even Sampaoli, suddenly throws themselves at him — well, at some point, _on_ him — so that he's at the bottom of a dogpile 24 guys in. And people think he misses male company at home, what madness!

Masche lets himself be pulled down, lets his team pour their affection and regrets over him.

He's smiling despite it all. He is _happy_ , despite it all.

The secret is this: he's still in love and always will be.


End file.
